Prelude 3: Shaggy Dog Story
by Ellislash
Summary: Coach's Prelude: How did the survivors get Left 4 Dead in the first place? Coarse language, gore, violence. I don't own anything Valve does.


Tuna fish and cheese snacks, spicy beef jerky and protein bars. Coach frowned into the pantry and went to check the den. _I__ know__ they __were __'round __here __somewhere... _He turned his little house upside-down, searching between the couch cushions, under the bed, behind the trophy cabinet, everywhere. Manny followed him, shaggy tail wagging halfheartedly. When his master opened the kitchen cabinet for a third time, he whined. It was a gently pitiful sound.

"I know, boy. I'm sorry. No more treats in this house." Coach sighed, and knelt to scratch his best friend's ears. "No treats for either of us."

The Green Flu crisis was _supposed_ to have ended weeks ago. _Evacuate, __my __ass,_ he'd thought, and waited for the government to admit its mistake. But the radio just kept reading off bad news. When he took Manny for walks, the huge white beast had cowered and slunk around, like the terrified puppy he'd been when Coach first got him from the shelter. Then the riots started, folks started acting mighty strange, and shipping out was starting to look like a good idea. Only hometown pride kept him in Savannah now. His house was his castle, and doggone if running away wasn't the absolute last option. He picked up Manny's leash.

"Let's go down to the dollar store, how 'bout that? They got bones for you and candy for me." Coach reached for Manny's collar, but the dog backed away. His tail was tucked between his legs and trembling.

"What's wrong, boy? No walk this mornin'?" Coach grew concerned as he approached again and heard a deep growl.

"Okay, okay, look, I'm puttin' it down," he said soothingly, and very obviously placed the leash on the table. "We don't gotta go anyplace." He slowly extended his empty hands. Manny continued to shake but did not bite when his master softly petted his head. Instead, he whined again.

_That's__ some __kinda __bullshit,_ Coach thought suspiciously. _If __he's __whinin', __where's __that __growlin' __comin' __from?_ Warily, he stood up.

"Shh, 'sgonna be fine, what's spookin' you?" Manny stared very hard at the kitchen window. It faced east, and the morning sunlight was just reaching it after mounting the taller buildings next door. A shadow moved on the yellow-patterned curtain. Coach's face grew hard.

The growling was joined by a squishy, squeaky kind of sound as he took his nine-iron from the golf bag by the door. He hefted it and slowly approached the window, arm drawn back to strike. With his left hand he yanked back the curtain.

Manny yelped and bolted for the bedroom. A face, a human face, was smushed up against the glass. Its skin was pale green, its mouth dripped dark liquid, and it was growling. When it saw Coach it began to hammer at the windowpane with filthy hands.

The tinkling crash of broken glass shocked Coach into action. He swung his club at the grotesque face pushing itself into his home, and made contact with a sharp _squelch_. The intruder went limp, half-in and half-out of the window. Blood flowed into the sink.

Coach stared at it, stunned, and began to cross himself repeatedly. He wasn't Catholic, but the movement made him feel better. The gory golf club clattered to the floor.

_Oh__ shit. __Oh__ shit. __Mary __and __Joseph__ forgive __me..._

He prayed fiercely and dumped the corpse back out the window. It smelled rotten-no wonder Manny had freaked out. Coach drew the curtain over the shattered glass, wiped his hands on a paper towel, and went to fetch his friend.

Manny was under the bed, hackles raised. It took a long time to coax him out, since Coach now smelled like that unnatural thing he'd killed. He wished he had found those bacon treats; they would have helped.

Finally the big mutt crept back out, and both of them ate some tuna fish for breakfast. Coach turned on his short-wave emergency radio. What he heard made his heart sink.

"...last helicopters will leave at noon today. This is not a drill. … Message repeats. Warning. All survivors report to the Hilton Savannah evacuation post immediately. The last helicopters will leave at noon..." The robotic voice looped through the script over and over.

_We__ can't __stay._ Coach sadly threw out his empty can. _Devil's__ claimed__ this __city __after __all. __When__ a __man __ain't __safe __in __his __own__ home... __I __guess__ it's __past __time __to __get __out._

He prayed to Jesus for safe passage, filled a small duffel bag, and convinced Manny to accept the leash. With a heavy heart he left the house, and locked his front door behind him.

Manny stayed close enough to trip Coach up several times. The shaggy creature was trying to hide behind his legs, but "behind" in relation to every direction at once. Coach spun around to detangle himself, but so frequently that he started to get dizzy. He sat in the empty street, and his friend immediately curled up in his lap. The poor animal was vibrating like a greyhound.

"This ain't workin', boy," he told the dog quietly. "Stay with me, okay?" The leash came free of Manny's collar with a soft _click_.

Once Coach's ears stopped telling him that the world was spinning, he carefully removed the trembling pile of fur pinning down his legs. Standing, he reoriented himself to the hotel. It was quite close, close enough that he could make out two choppers sitting on the roof and hear a third circling nearby.

"Manny. Heel."

They avoided the bodies in the street as much as possible, but a few blocks farther on it became clear that the bodies didn't want to avoid them. _What __the __hell __is __goin' __on __here?_ wondered Coach, tiptoeing past a group of four... people... who wandered aimlessly and vomited blood. _It __wasn't __like __this __before_. Just a few days ago the sick were still in hospitals and psych wards, but once the riots started, people lost their goddamn minds. Coach watched as one poor soul off to the left flailed his arms around his head, like he was fending off magpies. It was disturbingly hypnotic.

Suddenly Manny yelped, a piercing bark that snapped Coach back to attention. Two seconds later his duffel bag was ripped from his shoulder with such force that his arm burned from the friction. He spun right to see a wild-eyed monster barely a foot from his face. It had his bag in one filthy hand, and an eighty-pound ball of fur and muscle hanging from its arm. Blood welled up around Manny's teeth, staining his white coat cardinal red.

"Oh _shit!_"

Coach had no weapon, and now cursed himself for leaving the golf club at home. The noise was starting to bother other Flu victims, who slowly turned to join the fight. At first they were confused, moving jerkily, but all too fast they spotted their meal and charged.

_Praise __the __Lord __and __pass __the __ammunition,_ Coach sang in his mind, and delivered a massive punch to his nearest attacker. It staggered, nose broken. Manny released its arm and landed, ready to lunge again.

"Heel!" Coach shouted, and started to run. He left his bag in the street, with the walking dead.

He hadn't gone far when he noticed that Manny wasn't beside him. He looked back to see that no flesh-eaters were following, either. A hot, sick feeling gathered in his stomach. _God,__ please, __let __him__ be __okay..._

Growls of the damned mixed with the growls of a wolf, his fluffy white puppy, spinning and snapping and holding back three disease-ridden zombies at once. Coach saw Manny as a bright blur against a dark tide, and was couldn't look away. Only the violent hum of an approaching helicopter kept him from running back to join his canine brother in the fray. More were coming. He had to move.

"Good boy," he whispered, fighting tears. He turned his back on the battle and fled.

Coach focused on the hotel with all his might, determined not to cry. Manny could still escape. He had to believe that.

Four blocks later he rounded a corner and saw something that jolted him from his sorrow. Jogging down the next cross-street was a woman, very much alive, gazing hopefully up at the hotel tower. Coach charged onto the same road, shouting.

"Look out!"

His old linebacker skills hadn't left him yet; he plowed into an infected man standing not three feet in front of the lady in pink. He was overcome with fury as he threw his victim to the ground, and in a vengeful rage lifted his foot. The thing's neck made a satisfying _crunch_ when he brought all his weight down on it. Ignoring the stinking mess all over his shoe, he looked up.

The woman was in shock. Coach grabbed her hand as his blood-lust receded. It left a determined emptiness in his heart.

"Let's go! C'mon, now!" Together they ran straight ahead, up to the hotel's cordoned-off entrance. Coming at them fast from the right was a screaming, seething horde of plague-ridden killers-but out in front he could see the two people being chased. _More __survivors,_ Coach thought, surprised. He and the Lady instantly, silently agreed to hold the door for them.

In stormed a young 'un in a mechanic's clothes, and hard on his heels a man closer to Coach's age wearing a fancy white suit. The second they were inside Coach slammed the door shut, using a bit of debris to jam it. As the barrage from the other side began, he realized just how long it had been since he'd run like that. His breath came in labored gasps.

"Well all right, let's git ta them whirlybirds!" the boy announced cheerfully. Apparently he was a local.

"Helicopters," grumbled Suit. His voice was from up North. "They are _called_ helicopters."

Coach, the Lady and the Suit followed the Boy to the stairs. Suit's swanky outfit had a long splatter of blood on it, which brought Coach to the edge of tears again. Manny's fur had looked just the same...

_From__ one __Hell __to __another,_ he moaned inside after four or five turns up the staircase. With every step he regretted having such a love of sweet, fatty food. _It's__ good __exercise, __at __least,_ he thought, sweating profusely. Two minutes later, a red-hot dagger of a stitch pierced his side. He groaned and had to slow down, letting all three others get far ahead. So much for that.

"Who the hell... puts an evac station... up thirty flights a' god-damned stairs?" he panted.

"C'mon, Coach," Suit encouraged him. _How'd __he __know__ my __name?_ "Maybe the helicopter... maybe it's made of chocolate!"

Coach glared at the smirking jackass, and kept climbing. One foot at a time, one breath at a time, just like he used to tell his kids when they tired out during practice. They'd all left when this whole mess started. Schools had been the first places to be emptied. He thought he heard some voices above him but was focusing too hard to listen. _Almost__ there. __Keep __goin'.__ Keep__ breathin'._

At long last, body burning, he staggered out onto the roof. He gulped air into his lungs-air that was too still, too quiet. The choppers were gone; he could see them, flying hell-bent for leather into the west.

"This is not happening," the Lady prayed aloud. "This is not happening..."

Coach felt betrayed. "Aren't they supposed to be savin' our asses?" he demanded, fueled by righteous anger and dread. He was stuck. The thought made him look them over again: the Boy, The Suit, and the Lady. _They're__ my __team __now, __aren't __they?_ Never had a championship seemed like such a long shot.

Despite his insults, the Suit wasn't in prime shape either. He braced himself on his knees, panting, and raised his hard face to the sky.

"Looks like there's been a change of plans."


End file.
